


Bitter

by Mr_Customs_Man



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dissociation, Genderswap, Incest, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5184758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Customs_Man/pseuds/Mr_Customs_Man
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halward never did the blood ritual. Halward never hurt him. That all happened to someone else, not Dorian. Halward wouldn’t do that to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter

Dorian stares at the face in the mirror. He carefully arranges her long hair into a neat braid, twisting it around her head to create a crown before covering it in a black veil. If there’s one good thing about this damned Mage-Templar War, it’s that it provides a ready excuse. No one is going to accost a pregnant widow.

He picks up his “walking stick” with her slender, feminine hand and makes his way carefully down the tavern steps. There’s been a persistent ache in her back these past few days and it’s been driving Dorian mad. He doesn’t know if it’s normal or not; he doesn’t know anything about babies, much less about pregnant women. Her stomach has gotten rather large. Perhaps the cause was simply all the extra weight? Yes, that was probably it.

A man braces her elbow and helps guide her down, and Dorian twists her mouth into a pretty smile that leaves him blushing. For all their barbarism, the South thrives on chivalry. Dorian pays the innkeeper for his room and heads toward the marketplace. With any luck, he’ll be able to hitch a ride to Redcliffe on one of the many passing caravans. He makes up some sob story about his mother-in-law owning a farm near the village, throws in a couple of tears, and the merchant falls for it hook, line, and sinker.

Every rock and hole the wagon drives over feels like knives being stabbed in his back. He clutches her stomach as the baby shifts, kicking out, and the pain increases tenfold. The journey from Denerim to Redcliffe takes only two days. The merchant drops him off at the gates and Dorian blinks up at the winding green tear across the sky. There is something strange in the air here.

Felix is waiting in the ruins of the windmill, just like his letter said he would. At first, his eyes slide right over him, still looking for someone who no longer exists. But then they come back and rest on her chin, her mouth, her beauty mark– all things _she_ stole from Dorian and Felix’s eyes widen as realization dawns. “Dorian?” He croaks out and reaches out to grasp at the rubble when Dorian nods. “How- What?”

“What’s the matter, Felix? Don’t you like my new look?” He asks, but the voice that comes out of her throat is too high-pitched, too sweet and feminine to have the same bite the words would have had if it had been his voice. “Father was pleased with it.” He hates the way the words crack and strangle when he says ‘Father.’

All the blood has drained from Felix’s face and there is a hatred in his eyes as he stares down at her swollen belly. “Who’s-”

“Don’t ask me about that,” Dorian snaps, cutting off the question before it can be voiced.

Felix looks back up and Dorian has never seen him so angry before. “I will kill him.”

Dorian tries to laugh because Felix couldn’t hurt a fly, but it dies in his mouth and he knows Felix means every word of it.

* * *

It’s been months since Dorian has had to fight. His center of gravity is all wrong. He is slow and cumbersome and the demons are pressing him in. He swings out with his staff. The blade embeds itself into the side of a Shade and it shrieks out its death cry. With a frantic jerk Dorian tries to pull it free, but to no avail. He throws down a line of fire to keep the others from coming too close but they bring with them shadows and the Fade and he hears his father’s voice say, “ _This child will be perfect._ ” 

He hears the door to the Chantry open behind him. “Good. You’re finally here. Now help me close this, would you?”

The Inquisitor leaps into the fray, putting himself between Dorian and the demons. A pair of large grey hands wrap around his own and with a tug his staff pulls free, leaving the demon to break away into tiny Fade-touched sparks. Dorian looks up at the man behind him and sees a very large Qunari grinning down at him. And then Dorian’s pushed back, out of the fight, while the Qunari charges forward. Well, just because _she’s_ pregnant, that doesn’t mean Dorian can’t fight and he unleashes fire and lightning from his fingertips.

The Inquisitor closes the tear and introductions are in order. Dorian sweeps into a bow instead of a curtsey and says, “Amarita, most recently of Minrathous.” He doesn’t want them associating his name with her body. So, he gives them the name he’s taken to calling her. Amarita, from amaritudinem. Bitterness. And isn’t it funny that both the words “love” and “bitterness” share the same root?

That’s who he becomes to the Inquisition, because they don’t know him well enough to be able to tell Dorian and Amarita apart. Sera calls him “Amy”, Vivienne calls him “Madame”, and the Inquisitor addresses him as “The Widow Amarita.” But then the Inquisitor is an old-fashioned boy. Whenever Dorian enters a room, the Inquisitor leaps up from his chair and bows. He can’t help but share a laugh with Josephine over it; he does the same thing to her. The Iron Bull just calls him “Vint” and Dorian likes that best. In fact, he’s never heard the Bull refer to him as “Widow” or “Ma'am” or “Lady.” He wonders if the Bull somehow knows. Does he hesitate a second too long when someone calls out her name? Does he flinch when a man kisses the back of his hand and says, “My lady”?

He knows he should give up the widow’s weeds before the Inquisition’s gentle prying becomes outright accusations. There’s only so many ways he can dodge the question and he isn’t comfortable with making up a dead husband. But they provide him a form of protection better than any armor. He’s a Tevinter mage in an organization dedicated to fighting Tevinter mages. People cross the street to avoid him, gossip about him behind his back. But no one would dare accuse him of being a spy, not when he’s dressed like this. Not when she’s seven months pregnant.

A rather novel idea comes to him early one morning as he’s lying in bed, sick to his stomach. She doesn’t have to be pregnant. He can get rid of it. He’s not locked up in his father’s house anymore, he doesn’t owe him shit. There’s a little voice in the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like his own, accusing him of destroying the one thing his father’s ever wanted, of laying to waste all of his hopes and dreams. He shouldn’t care about what his father wants. Amarita doesn’t deserve this and neither does Dorian.

Vivienne hands him a cup of tea when he asks her discreetly if there isn’t something that can be done. “There are potions, surgeries…” She says. “But my dear, it simply isn’t safe. If you were not so far along we would have plenty of options, but at this stage there isn’t anything we can do that would not also pose a significant risk to you.”

She looks at him, her gaze piercing as though she can read every thought that has ever entered his head. “I don’t know what stories they tell about the Circle in Tevinter,” she says eventually. “But sometimes… the Templars will overstep their bounds. Montsimmard would get transfers from other Circles and they would have this look about them, like they were being hunted. You have that same look. You were never married were you?”

Dorian’s heart is racing and he can’t breathe.

“Who’s the father?” She presses.

“Father,” he answers.

Vivienne frowns, confusion marring her brow. She doesn’t understand. “Yes, who is he? … Amarita? Amarita, dear, you need to breathe. Here, lie down for me-”

* * *

The Inner Circle is careful not to ask him any more questions after that. They don’t know the whole story, but they know enough and it makes Dorian uncomfortable. The rest of the Inquisition isn’t so kind. His lie about being a widow is enough to confirm every evil stereotype they have of him. They whisper to themselves, saying he was probably a prostitute, or got knocked up during an orgy. Because in Tevinter orgies are everywhere. You can’t walk down the street without tripping over one, apparently. Dorian wonders where Southerners get these ridiculous ideas. 

He takes to hanging around Bull and his Chargers. No one dares to say anything bad about him when Bull is in earshot. He sits at the table they’ve claimed as theirs and cannot help but stare at Bull’s throat as he swallows down the thick, frothy beer.

“You can’t have any,” he says as he pulls the mug away from his scarred lips with a satisfying smack.

“It’s been so long,” Dorian whines. “Can’t you just let it… waft towards me? Let me breathe it in?”

“Aw,” Krem mocks good-naturedly. “We should start up a charity for the poor Altus. See how many bottles of wine we can collect before the baby pops out.”

Sera comes stumbling up towards him then, already deep in her cups. She slings an arm around Dorian’s shoulder and stares at him as if she’s about to impart a great truth. “Men are shite,” she slurs. “Their bits are all weird and dangly. But if you want to know how good sex can be you come to me, alright?”

Bull reaches over and cuffs her on the back of the head. He seems uncharacteristically tense, looking at Dorian out of the corner of his eye as if he’s about to break. But Dorian can’t help but laugh. “I usually like the dangly bits,” he replies and Sera groans.

“You’re breaking my heart, Amy.”

“Go to bed, Sera,” Bull shoos her off, shaking his head and slowly relaxing as Dorian continues to laugh and smile. “Gotta admit, I’m glad you ditched those widow’s weeds. Black’s not your color.”

Dorian’s never been so offended in his life. “Of course it’s my color,” he sniffs. “I look good in anything.”

Bull smiles. Dorian can feel the heat rise in his cheeks. “Yeah, you do.”

* * *

The pregnancy is rapidly approaching its conclusion. How long does Amarita have left? A week? Two at the most? Dorian stares at the crib and pile of toys that he’s shoved haphazardly in the corner of his room, wondering what he’s supposed to do with it all. Blackwall has been locked away in that barn like a madman. Everyday he comes by with something else he’s built. Yesterday it was a mobile, the day before that a set of alphabet blocks. Now he’s working on a rocking chair. The entire Inner Circle seems to have been consumed with baby fever and Dorian just does not understand. The Inquisitor has even banned him from doing research, telling him that he needs to “rest.” That’s the last thing Dorian wants. 

Bull comes looking for him and Dorian realizes that it’s been hours and he hasn’t moved from his spot on the bed. “You feeling okay?” He asks, rubbing a large hand down his back. He follows Dorian’s gaze at the stack of baby things.

“I’m fine,” Dorian distantly hears himself answer. “It’s her I’m worried about.”

Bull’s hand stills and Dorian knows he’s messed up. “Who are you talking about?” He asks.

When Dorian doesn’t answer, the Iron Bull gets up and starts rearranging things, getting the crib set up and organizing the toys and clothes, talking about anything and everything.

* * *

“This isn’t happening to me!” Dorian screams. He’s standing hunched over and clutching his desk white-knuckled.

“I’m afraid it is, darling,” Vivienne says as she tries to coax him onto the bed. She’s traded in her silk gowns for a simple, white linen dress and apron. “I know it hurts, but you need to lie down so I can check how dilated you are.”

Stitches has him by the arm and is trying to guide him, but Dorian refuses to budge. The pain threatens to swallow him whole. He sucks in air, but he still can’t breathe, and Maker, does it usually hurt this much? Stitches stops pulling on his arm and it takes Dorian a minute to realize how quiet it’s gotten. Dorian opens his eyes – and when had he close them? – to see Stitches staring wild-eyed at his stomach.

Dorian looks down. There is blood everywhere.

It's running down his legs, spreading slowly across the floor. He can taste it in his mouth. Who does it belong to? Not Ligeia, no. She had been his nanny when he was a boy. How could Father do this to her?

“Get her on the bed,” Vivienne commands, her voice dark and low.

Stitches braces his arm against the back of his knees and lifts him up, carrying him to the bed while he thrashes. No, no, no, no. He won’t let Father do this. He needs to escape.

“Shit!” Stitches screams, barely ducking in time to escape the ball of fire aimed for his head.

“I won’t let him change me!” Dorian screams. “Don’t touch me! Let me go! Father, please!”

“Amarita, you’re at Skyhold. Can you hear me? You need to calm down. You’re hemorrhaging. I can’t treat you unless you calm down.”

There is the thunder of feet and suddenly Dorian can feel his magic leeching away. The fire goes out and his hands fall limply at his side, drained. He turns to see a woman’s face that his mind helpfully tells him belongs to Cassandra. A large grey hand strokes his hair and Dorian reaches up and grabs it like it’s a lifeline. His father can’t hurt him if the Iron Bull is near.

And then everything goes blissfully black and silent.

* * *

Dorian is on strict bed rest. Vivienne explains that his uterus ruptured. It was misshapen, because no matter whose body he’s in, he’s still somehow always wrong. The baby survived, but she and Stitches had to perform an emergency hysterectomy. He’ll never another child. Dorian laughed and laughed and laughed when she told him that. 

Dorian doesn’t know what to do with it. With him. It’s a boy. A perfect little boy. He can’t nurse him, the milk doesn’t come like it’s suppose to. Vivienne told him that happens sometimes, but it just feels like another failure.

Josephine and the Inquisitor have volunteered to take care of the baby until Dorian can get well. They’re besotted with the child, cooing over him and staring deeply into one another’s eyes. It makes Dorian want to gag, only… no, not really. That’s just his bitterness talking.

Dorian can barely bring himself to hold him. Every time he looks at him his mind goes blank and there’s a roaring in his ears like he’s standing at the edge of a cliff on the Storm Coast.

A few days after Vivienne deems him well enough to walk, the Inquisitor comes to see him. He’s worried that the Inquisitor will want to talk about the baby, that he'll tell Dorian he needs to take him back now that he’s healthy again. He doesn’t want him back. He doesn’t know what to do with him. He’ll ruin him, just like his father ruined him.

Instead, the Inquisitor shuffles his feet and pulls out a letter. A letter from Halward. Dorian sits heavily down on his bed as he reads through it. He wants his daughter and grandchild returned to him. "Leliana has gathered all the information she can on him,“ the Inquisitor says. "According to her sources, Halward Pavus never had a daughter. Only a son. A son who disappeared nine months ago. Dorian.”

Dorian says nothing and after a moment the Inquisitor continues.

“Vivienne says you were screaming for your father to stop… to stop something. To not change you.” He bites his lip. “Are you… what did he…?” He breaks off, unable to ask the question. Or maybe he doesn’t know what to ask. Are you really Dorian Pavus? What did he do? Who’s the father of your child?

Dorian doesn’t answer but when the Inquisitor asks if he wants to meet this retainer he nods. He doesn’t want to run from this anymore.

* * *

There is no retainer. He should have known his father would lie. 

“What is this exactly, Father?” He demands. “Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?”

Halward sighs, looking past Dorian at the Inquisitor by his side, at the Iron Bull standing like a sentinel by the door. “This is how it has always been.”

Anger floods hotly through his veins, no longer contained. “Talk to me, Father! Me!” He screeches, Amarita’s high voice cracking. “Or can you not bear to look at me?!”

“Dorian, please, if you will only listen to me–”

“Why?! So you can spout more convenient lies?!” He rages. “You did this to me! It happened to me! You changed me! You forced me into body that wasn’t mine and you–!” The baby. He wouldn’t let his father get his hands on the baby. He would twist him, destroy him. He doesn’t know if he could ever bring himself to love the child, but he would not let his father harm him. “Your son is dead!” He lies and he could see the Inquisitor reach out towards him. But Dorian couldn’t stop. “He’s dead! The baby is dead!”

The Inquisitor’s hand freezes and Halward braces himself against a table, his breathing shallow. When Dorian had screamed “Your son is dead,” the Inquisitor had thought it was a metaphor, that he was referring to himself. But then he said, “The baby is dead.” The Inquisitor tried to make sense of the words. Dorian had given birth to the child. He called the baby Halward’s son. But Dorian was also Halward’s son. And that meant–

No one moved.

The Inquisitor’s arms were wrapped around Dorian’s middle as he drags him out of the tavern. Dorian is twisting in his grasp, still screaming and yelling. Bits and pieces of what had happened that night slip out and Dorian could feel the Inquisitor shudder in horror, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t.

When he comes back to himself, he finds himself in a field away from the village, the Inquisitor’s arms holding him tight in a hug, his face pressed against the back of his head, quietly shushing him. Ten minutes later the Iron Bull joins them and helps Dorian stand up. “Where were you?” He asks. He wraps Amarita’s… no, his hand, his hand in the Bull’s, intertwining their fingers.

“I had to take care of something,” he answers, but doesn’t explain. Dorian doesn’t ask any more questions, not about where he was or why he changed his trousers or why his axe is cleaner than it was before they left Skyhold.

* * *

Krem cuts his hair and shows him how to bind his breasts without hurting himself. Perhaps one day they’ll be able to find a spell to reverse what’s been done to him, but in the meantime he has to learn to live in the body he has. At least he’ll have the Iron Bull and the Chargers to help him along the way. 

He gives the baby to Josephine and the Inquisitor, who have already announced their intentions to marry. “Thank you,” The Inquisitor whispers as he holds his new son close.

“What will you name him?” Dorian asks, stroking the babe’s brown, chubby cheek with his finger.

“Josephine wants to call him Didier, after her grandfather. It means ‘wanted, loved.’”

Dorian feels his heart clench. “And you will, won’t you? Love him, I mean. Even if he isn’t perfect, or smart, or strong. You’ll still love him, right?”

“I will always love him.”

He wipes away a stray tear and smiles, leaving the child to his father.


End file.
